Always Play The Wrong Card
by blackballoons
Summary: She knows she'll cave because she's in competition with the boy who waited four years for the girl who never showed a genuine interest in him and her idea of holding out is waiting ten minutes before eating another Fat Cake. Pre-iOMG


**A/N:** Hello there. Long time, no see and this is the only thing I have to offer as an apology. This was written post iOMG but pre iLost My Mind save for the last few paragraphs.

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><p><strong>Always Play The Wrong Card<strong>_  
><em>

'Mamihlapinatapais, from the Yaghan language of Tierra del Fuego, is considered the world's most succinct word - and the hardest to translate.

It means, "_a look shared by two people, each wishing that the other will initiate something that both desire but that neither one wants to start_".'

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><p>It has always been there.<p>

The pushing and pulling of foreign emotions, the forwards and backwards of not wanting to deal with the consequences of acting on them, neither wanting to step outside of the precisely placed lines of their odd friendship (_again_), if you can call what they have such a thing. All they have boils down to a strange familiarity, comforting like the movement of a speeding car, the rocking of a boat at sea, forever in motion but going nowhere of great significance.

She looks at him and he at her, or vice versa if he's feeling cocksure, and it is there is all its mocking glory, this unspeakable _thing_, an inexplicable bond that neither remembers asking for back in sixth grade. Time has made it difficult to remember when it didn't exist and it is this that should have forced them to deal with it, but somehow it still manages to trip them up and turn the limited pleasant exchanges between them sour. Resistance is becoming futile after five years and they're now at the age where everything they've become accustomed to is changing at a breakneck pace, racing on ahead of them to allow them to see where they **should** be and what it will make of them. In order to prevent the forthcoming change they are stalling more than ever, digging their heels in like petulant toddlers as they continue to partake in their fittingly childish exchanges of '_I hate you_' and '_I hate you too_'.

It isn't as simple as a reluctance to move forward and conform to what is expected of bickering sidekicks; it is not knowing how to set the wheels in motion, too settled in their mismatched routine of slap, banter, kick and giving back as good as the other gives to accept what should be a natural progression. They are mutually content in existing in the perpetual limbo between what they were and what they need to be, exchanging daring side glances while she methodically pushes his buttons and he adopts a sardonic streak to rival hers, all while feigning indifference towards each other.

Sometimes he will glance her way while she is mid conversation with an acquiantance by her locker, his eyes dark, eyebrow arched playfully and it lasts all of ten seconds before someone else requests his attention, but that is all it takes. This look, a look that can only be translated as '_I want you but I'm not coming to get you_', causes words fail her by lodging in the lining of her oesophagus, leaving her mouth dry like sandpaper and her lips impersonating a fish out of water. She's a goner for a solid two minutes, cursing him to hell and back on a unicycle for catching her off guard, for tossing the ball back into her court with nothing more than a loaded stare.

They are playing a game of pass the parcel with a ticking bomb, neither wanting to explosive in their hands when the music stops regardless of how both are capable of disabling the device if they wished to by using verbal communication instead of their penchant for silent exchanges. Instead they would much rather let it denotate in their hands and bask in the subsequent chaos it would create of them as individuals and as a duo, rather than initiate what should have begun long ago had they been a little more forthright, had they been a little less stubborn.

They're getting their kicks from the build up of what they're refusing to let happen, running rings around one another and almost colliding at regular intervals, but never properly touching because non-violent skin contact and barely touching fingertips are not part of the deal. The thrill is in the never ending chase, in feeling his steady gaze on her when he thinks she's too preoccupied with consuming her beloved meat-based products, in the way she makes him shudder by doing that thing with her eyelashes they're stood too close together. Abiding by the expectations of others and evolving into a romanticised version of themselves would be the easier option, the safe bet, but there is a deep set fear that both are refusing to acknowledge of finding that the grass isn't greener on the other side and being unable to return to what they had prior to the meddling of others. The games they are playing, the web of silent confessions they are weaving, are highly dysfunctional even by their standards, as dysfunctional as the parents they learnt the meaning of the word from, but neither cares to change the gameplan.

There is no stopping until someone comes out on top as a result of the other giving in.

Her eyes flash dangerously across the studio/classroom/hallway whenever she detects the smallest of chinks in his armour, be it the exhalation of a long held sigh or the clearing of his throat during a bout of awkward silence. His three-word confession repeatedly dies a slow death on his lips, fading in the harshness of her stance, arms folded over her chest in a way that dares him to suffer the consequences of his actions. Her sharp blue challenge him with '_give it your best shot, Benson_' to which he quickly recovers and responds by miming zipping his mouth closed and throwing away the key, the playing field becoming level once again when his intense brown reply '_like I'd give you the satisfaction of another victory, Puckett_'.

(He has more restraint than she is willing to give him credit for.)

For every step forward there are two steps back, the constant battle of progression vs. regression locking them in a continuous dance of will-we-won't-we. Their once broken promise to never speak of **it** and the subsequent emotions the scenario vomited up has left them frustrated with a hearty side order of annoyance, the inquisitive mutter of '_did you like it?_' mocking them as it plays on a continuous loop in the back of their minds. The avoidance of tackling their feelings head-on is clear in the way they keep mis-reading signals and getting their wires crossed at any given chance, using valuable time that should be spent talking emotions and 'stuff' like the responsible almost-adults they're meant to be to chase one another in dizzy circles as a welcome distraction from the task at hand. Because, when it comes down to it, taunting and bickering is what they know, their defense mechanism for when situations become too serious to remain within their comfort zone.

They've become too endeared to these interactions to let them go without a fight.

On her low days she'll turn to him with eyes devoid of emotion (which causes more fear in him than her most hate-filled death glare or double fist face dance threats), save for the slightest flicker of life in the cloudy sky blue, and a connection forms that speaks louder than unspoken words ever will. He senses the words that are swelling in her chest, creeping up her throat to nestle on the very tip of her scathing tongue, the very same words he's found himself swallowing down on numerous occasions. Three small words, insignificant when uttered alone, threaten to escape first (_I give up_) followed by two words, each with three letters (_you win_). She'll move to stand parallel to him, almost toe to toe, and she, he, they are within touching distance of the end of their masochistic cat and mouse games. Although knowing the outcome, he'll wait with the patience of a saint every single time for her to say what he cannot, watching with trepidation as she stops and backtracks, appearing to snap out of a reverie as she steps back to compose herself, fixing her well-worn scowl back in place and rebuilding her crumbled defences out of glares and insults.

(_These are the moments when he will briefly allow himself to think about his lips on hers out on the fire escape, considering the odds of whether he'll have the chance of doing so again and wondering who will be the one to initiate the action when their resolve disintegrates.)_

It will not be easy for whoever caves first.

Underneath her (often irrational) compulsion to drive him to the brink of insanity with her filthy habits and trucker mouth, she knows she'll be the one to crumble under the pressure of expectations first. She's well-known for being reckless and impulsive and taking what she wants in two hands, staking her claim on anything that takes her fancy and not taking kindly to being told what to do. She can feel the inevitable coming in the way that with each passing day the overwhelming need to take hold of his impressively muscular shoulders and plant one on him is becoming increasingly difficult to keep buried beneath her thick coating of nonchalance and who-gives-a-damn mentality. She knows she'll cave, has possibly known this from the get-go, because she's in competition with the boy who waited four years for the girl who never showed a genuine interest in him (damsel-in-distress complex set aside) and her idea of holding out is waiting ten minutes before eating another Fat Cake.

Realistically they shouldn't work and this is the reason they collectively use to maintain why they've been stuck in the friends-with-the-potential-to-be-more rut for the best part of eighteen months (that is if you begin counting from when they began acknowledging the, for lack of a better word, chemistry between them and not when they began coexisting). She's **her** and he's **him**, two seperate entities that should in no way be attracted one another, let alone have the mental capacity to consider combining to create a potentially volatile melting pot of mismatched personalities, uncategorisable emotions and short fuses. She's **her** and he's **him** and they shouldn't connect on a level higher than casual acquaintances at best, yet they've defeated all logic and thoroughly despise themselves for it.

It is not like they ever asked to feel the way they do.

(_Not that they'd take it back given the opportunity._)

Lately he has been giving her this look, peculiar in the way he appears to be fighting an internal battle of should-I-shouldn't-I. It causes the atmosphere to shift, the static electricity tangible between them, and she bites her tongue until she tastes blood to refrain from an outburst of '_no, Benson, you can't say it because I can't stand to hear it from you; not now, not ever_'. Each gaze forces them closer to their ever-advancing confrontation, petulant child syndrome be damned. She can feel the monologue she's kept tucked beneath her tongue for months churning her insides as it bubbles closer to the surface, ready to spill from her traitor of a mouth and unleash potential pandemonium.

These are the only times when she cannot meet him eye-for-eye and sling a hasty insult his way to defuse the tension, his torn expression filling her with guilt over their antics and guilt has never sat well with her.

On other occasions (more often than not when they find themselves alone while they film segments for their website) he'll look at her with a somewhat slightly dazed expression attached to his handsome features, mouth twisted in a half-smile half-frown, almost like he cannot fathom how she exists with all her misdemeanors and madness. His eyes roam her petite frame before settling on her face, small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and the wave of warmth that floods her from the inside out is a foreign sensation for the girl who has always taken a backseat and come second best to others for so long.

She is yet to decide whether she loves or loathes this feeling that only he can evoke in her when he catches her off guard.

However out-of-character it may be, she has found herself spending time with him over the last week or so, with or without the final third of their trio, and her reasoning for doing so is that she is attempting to prove her new found theory that spending 'quality time' with him is what is needed to finally quash any and all inappropriate feelings she has for the nub. Such a ridiculous notion could happen in an alternate reality in which they can stay clueless teenagers forever, but in reality it doesn't work and she never really expected it to. (She's taken to trying to fool herself into situations she would otherwise never voluntarily agree to partake in, one badly planned excuse at a time.) Despite this, she is reveling in the down time she's having with him, like having him buy her a smoothie with a smile rather than a fight and walking home from school in a relatively companionable silence, taking it in turns to shoot side glances while the other makes a conscious effort to look away.

Put it down to age mellowing them, shrug it off as growing tired of their to-and-fro banter; it doesn't matter. When their circumstances come to a head and evolving into a whole new ball-game no one will be the least bit perturbed by it (except his mother, but that is a given).

The culmination of their non-verbal eye contact conversations and inability to progress to the next step brings us to the study lounge at Ridgeway during free period. It is just him and her, their peers having decided to take advantage of the rare April sun by 'studying' outdoors on the football field, and they haven't spoken a word to one another in the thirty minutes they've been together, a personal record. He's perched on a stool with his laptop placed in front of him on the wooden table, his left knee bouncing up and down as he tries to fix a technical difficulty on their popular website. She's sat on the desk beside his computer, casually leaning back on her arms and idly swinging her legs back and forth to the rhythm of the song he's had on repeat for the past twenty-seven minutes (and counting). She's pretending to be highly interested in the brick wall opposite her to hide how she's watching him work out of the corner of her eyes, his fingers gliding over the keys and she begins noting how many times his tongue darts out to moisten his lips.

He didn't ask her to keep him silent company and she didn't verbally invite herself to join him, but he doesn't protest against her presence and besides, the probability of having to listen to her best friend lecture her over how she has not yet started her semester project makes witnessing her favourite nerd at work seem like the less mind numbing and more entertaining option.

If their situation were simpler, less of a tangled web of nonsensical behaviour and more of a boy-likes-girl-likes-boy with zero complications, she could bring it all to an end in this room where no one can bear witness to what should remain between only them. She could put a stop to the backwards and forwards games they've been engaging in with the combined act of taking his stupid stripy shirt in her fists and kissing him in a way dissimilar to their first, all teeth and tongues and hands twisting in fabric to draw them closer together. She's torn between being quintessentially her by taking what she wants in two eager hands and being a coward by bolting for the large double doors and running until her lungs give out (because she has already assessed the floor space between the desk and the exit, concluding that she can safely flee the scene before he has the chance to curl his fingers around her wrist and prevent her from leaving). Exhausted from her internal debate, as well as reluctantly realising she can't be bold and make a such a direct move without a good shove in the right direction, she shifts to a more comfortable position on the desk, resting her elbows on her thighs and her chin in her hands. Her change of stance quickly steals his attention, causing him to peek up from his laptop screen to meet her now steady gaze, having already felt the right side of his face heating beneath her eye line and he raises an eyebrow to say '_you really came here just to stare me down, Puckett?_'

She exaggerates an eye roll in his direction and flicks her right foot out to catch him on the shin, more playful than her standard violent kicks, mouthing the word _nub_ as she does so. He acts mock offended by her lackluster jibe, knowing it'll get a rise out of her having spent the years taking mental notes on the most successful ways to push her buttons and make her squirm. He's been using this tucked away knowledge to force responses out of the passive-aggressive blonde; an example being how the simple arch of an eyebrow can leave her flustered and out of kilter. Call it playing dirty; he calls it playing at her at her own game.

He observes the smile that spreads across her stubborn mouth and how she quickly turns her head to hide it from him, her blonde curls bouncing with the movement. His forearm is resting on the desk several inches from her thigh and he slides it across the smooth surface to bump into her, an unsubtle attempt to regain her attention. After the fifth try she is still refusing to look at him and he's close to uttering an apology for being cocky with her when she snaps her head up with eyes full of the gutsy fire he's been missing. There's a spark that wasn't there before, like an idea has hit her like a tidal wave, and he goes to say something potentially witty but loses it as she moves down the table away from him.

She's rooting in her red and black plaid backpack before she loses the courage she requires to set the wheels in motion, admittedly in the most roundabout way possible, but if she doesn't do so who is to say if he'll ever buck up and take control for a change. She locates a lidless felt pen, holding it sideways between her teeth as she retrieves a wadded up sheet of ruled paper and hastily smoothes it out against her thigh. He stares at her with mild intrigue as she begins to scrawl on the paper, mainly due to how he hasn't seen her this dedicated to doing something (bar eating and winding him up something chronic) since the whole Penny Tee making incident, and she does her best to block him out and focus on her sudden proposition, or rather her command because he has no say in the matter. She finishes writing by throwing the pen onto the desk with a clatter, taking a moment to look over her choice words.

_**arm wrestle. thursday. before howard's class. prepare for the worst.**_

Under different circumstances she'd wad the paper back into a ball and throw it at him, aiming to hit him directly between the eyes, but instead she carefully folds the paper four times and holds it between her palms, close to backing out and forgetting she ever thought she could be the one to step up and admit defeat. To anyone else it may not seem like much, after all she is only challenging him to an arm wrestle, but this is her way of easing herself into the inevitable. She doesn't know how things will pan out because she's doesn't do 'forward planning' and if she's to be honest it could backfire in her face, leaving him thinking she's lost her mind and her on the verge of calling it a day.

All she knows is that she is going to let him claim a victory over her, indirectly letting him know she's taking the plunge and letting him triumph in more than just arm wrestling. It'll be the starting point in which everything will snowball and she thinks she is as ready as she'll ever be to endure the repercussions.

She stands, using her hands on the edge of the desk to push herself up, and shoves her shoes back on her feet while slinging her backpack over her shoulder. Once she is ready she stalls, as always, by giving him one last look that that she can only wish says '_I hope you're ready_' before dropping the folded paper in his lap and exiting the room as swiftly as she can without running. She doesn't turn back, not wanting to see his face, and she doesn't stop to think of what is going to come from finally following her gut instinct.

All that is left is to hope he takes the bait.

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><p>"<em>Tell me you love me. Tell me, because if I tell you first, I'm afraid you'll think it's a game.<em>"

Sophie Kowalsky, Jeux d'enfants (2003)

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><p><strong>AN:** IDK. In other words, Freddie plays dumb in _iOMG_ because he damn well knows Sam's in love with him. Also, I'm pretty sure I over used the words 'things', 'situation' and 'look'.

This is me trying to re-enter this fandom, one standalone fic at a time. I have no idea if/when my other stories will be completed, but I have plenty of angst planned for a later date. Watch this space.


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